


Loveless

by asaloki



Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pre-Thor (2011), Cursed Loki, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Character Death, Pseudo-Incest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-04
Updated: 2014-01-14
Packaged: 2017-12-17 16:20:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/869533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asaloki/pseuds/asaloki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p></p><div>
  <p>Loki is “cursed”; it's said that in time he'll lose the capacity to love even those who he holds dearest. Thor made an oath when the two of them were children that he would free his little brother from this loveless fate.</p>
</div>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

>   
> [MintySquirrel](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MintySquirrel/pseuds/MintySquirrel) is kindly writing a companion series to Loveless, a collection of drabbles set in the same AU (predominantly from Thor's PoV), called [Loved](http://archiveofourown.org/series/52803).
> 
> Read [MintySquirrel's](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MintySquirrel/pseuds/MintySquirrel) Prologue [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/911819). It takes place immediately before the events of this chapter. 
> 
> \- 

“Loki.” Thor’s voice is as distinctive a rumble as the thunder he harnesses. “ _Brother_.”

Loki does not even deign to lift his head for Asgard’s heir; rather, his nose remains buried in the weighty tome he’d been focused on before his brother arrived. “Thor,” he returns, voice neutral. “Tell me, to what do I owe the pleasure of your company on this occasion?”

Loath to concede to Loki’s divided attention, Thor steals the book out from his hands and throws it to one side. Loki stares after it for a moment, wistful, but then he folds his hands neatly on his lap and looks to Thor instead with a raised eyebrow. “I am the coming king of Asgard,” Thor reminds him haughtily, like Loki could ever omit such widely celebrated information. “You should know better than to wag that silver tongue of yours in my direction, Liesmith.”

Loki places a hand on his chest, above his heart, and feigns a wounded expression. Thor’s words do not cut him now as once they might, whether in jest or not. “You misjudge me, Thor,” he insists. “I was being sincere.”

His impromptu performance is met with a booming laugh, and Loki allows the smallest of smiles to curve onto his thin lips in return. He enjoys these moments more than he’d care to admit. “You are incapable of sincerity,” Thor accuses after a short silence has passed between them. Laughter still holds onto the edges of his voice.

Loki cocks his head to one side, however, and his smile turns rueful. “Am I?” he wonders aloud.

Oblivious to Loki’s sudden pensiveness, Thor claps his hand on the other’s shoulder. “Come,” he urges, pulling Loki up to his feet in one swift movement. “You must ready yourself for the festivities tonight.”

Clicking his tongue, Loki brushes some lint from his clothes in distaste. Thor’s presence in the library makes much more sense to him now, and it leaves him feeling irritated… Disappointed. “Ah yes, the festivities,” he drawls. “And I suppose it is to be you, Asgard’s esteemed golden prince, who has the fine responsibility of ensuring my attendance this evening. By any means necessary, I’d imagine.”

“Loki,” Thor starts, and his hesitation is all the confirmation that Loki needs.

“No,” he retorts, shrugging Thor’s hand from his shoulder. “I will not be treated as a prisoner.”

Loki is about to leave when Thor’s hand reaches out for him, fingers encircling his wrist in a secure hold. “Loki,” Thor repeats his name sternly, drawing the younger’s attention back to him. “It is father’s request that I escort you but it is out of love for you that he insists. You know that.” Thor’s thumb traces circles on Loki’s pale skin as he speaks, his touch warm and completely absent-minded. “We are, all of us, trying to do right by you, brother… I pray one day you will come to acce—”

“It is not I who lacks the capacity to accept,” Loki interrupts Thor’s speech, terse.

Frowning, Thor relinquishes his hold on Loki’s wrist. He considers his next words with more care than his impetuous nature usually allows for. “You cannot expect your family, your people, to forsake you as easily as you have yourself.”

Loki laughs. It’s a harsh, broken sound that resounds in the spacious room. “You are a fool, Thor. My people were the _first_ to forsake me.”

“Oh, Loki,” Thor breathes. “Do you truly believe that?”

Loki shakes his head, clenching his hands into fists at his sides. “Do not pity me,” he hisses, his cheeks acquiring a subtle red hue to mark his embarrassment. “I care neither for the people’s suspicions nor their piddling hearsay. Now, may I be excused?”

Thor nods, albeit reluctantly, dismissing Loki with a simple wave of his hand. “Loki?” he calls before the other can make it fully out the door. Loki hesitates but doesn’t turn back around to face him. “This curse on you will be broken. Believe me, brother; I would not hesitate to search the entire nine realms that you remain by my side.”

Loki exhales a shuddering breath. “And what if it is for naught?” he muses aloud. “What if the solution is not to be found in those nine realms? Would you forsake me then?”

Impassioned, Thor proclaims, “Never! I would sooner search a tenth!”

Loki leaves without another word, and Thor doesn’t know if the answer he gave was one his brother wished to hear or not.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “ _Prove it_ ,” he dares. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr](http://waldostiel.tumblr.com)
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Read [MintySquirrel's](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MintySquirrel/pseuds/MintySquirrel) Festivities drabble [ here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/911841) . It takes place immediately before the events in this chapter.
> 
> -

Loki enters his bedroom, as silent as a shadow. He divests himself of the ceremonial vesture in which he’s spent the evening clad. Once redressed in more comfortable attire, he sits himself down on the cushioned window seat, nestled in an alcove. He waits, but the wait is not a long one; Thor, his foolish brother, storms into the room without invitation mere moments later. He’s as boorish as ever, Loki thinks with a prickle of vexation, unsuited to that damnable title he wears with such frustrating, inordinate pride. 

Despite his musings, Loki’s expression remains outwardly unchanged. “Thor,” he admonishes with a much put-upon sigh. “I might not have been _decent_. You must ask and be granted permission first before entering one’s private bedchambers. Did our nursemaids teach you nothing worth knowing of decorum?” 

Scowling, Thor stalks ever closer. His hands curl into fists at his sides, telling of the ire he holds back, even now, for his brother’s sake. Loki watches, mocks him with his inscrutable countenance. “Loki,” Thor almost growls. “You have lacked decency this entire evening. To use tricks and wiles while in the attendance of the All-Father? It is unbecoming, brother. You should—”

“Be ashamed?” Loki wonders aloud, interrupting Thor’s no doubt well-rehearsed speech. His smile is cruel, twisted. “Yet I am not. Whatever shall we do?”

“Brother,” Thor implores meekly, his voice losing its heat all of a sudden. He hastens to close the remainder of the distance between them, coming to stand at Loki’s side in a few purposeful strides. “If you would not respect the All-Father,” Thor proceeds. “I would beseech you to at least respect yourself.”

Loki’s tongue darts out and wets his lips. The eerie smile from before has vanished from his expression, something to be thankful for. Thor lowers his hand, carefully brings it down to rest on Loki’s shoulder, both of them calmer now. Loki stiffens beneath his touch, muscles taut, but does not immediately throw him off. “Do you ask me as a brother?” Loki asks. His own voice is hushed, scarcely more than an exhaled breath. It is the nearest to vulnerable he has ever sounded, like a child in search of answers. 

But Thor knows not the answer Loki wishes to hear from him. 

He frowns, his brow furrowing as he tries to better understand Loki’s motives. “Of course,” he finally says, sincere. “As a brother, I would ask that of you and nothing more. It is all I could ever wish, Loki, for you to be safe. You must know that.”

Loki stands up from the window seat without warning, knocking Thor’s calloused hand from his shoulder. “As a brother then,” he scoffs, unimpressed. “I would bid you good night.” 

He slinks away, disappears into his en-suite to prepare for bed, and Thor’s frown deepens in his absence. Loki’s motives never become any clearer to him, no matter how much or how often he speculates, but still, despite the apparent futility of his cause, Thor endeavours to learn as best he can … Because Loki is his brother, and there is nothing for him Thor would not do.

 **-**

Loki receives a summons from his mother come the morn. She wishes to have breakfast with him, or so her note reads. Loki knows better. She means to have words with him, and Loki realises it is not an invitation he can choose to decline.

Nor is it one he would _want_ to. Loki adores his mother, feels close to her in a way that he never has his father. His complex relationship with the All-Father has become all the more strained since Odin anointed Thor his successor. It’s not that Loki denies Odin’s first-born son his claim to the throne—No; Loki would be the first to kneel and swear allegiance to his brother, his beloved older brother. However, he feels that Thor still has much to learn. Given time and proper guidance, he knows Thor will come to deserve the title that has been bestowed upon him, albeit prematurely, the honour of which Odin refused his better-suited second-born.

Loki is sure of that, but it does little to quell the ache of disappointment that flares in his own heart, the bitterness that Thor Odinson, the brute, should be named heir while Loki is left behind, abandoned to the darkness. He would live his life in the shadow of his brother’s ascension, and he might well wither there, he thinks with scorn. 

It is because he is cursed that it must be so. 

Loki hurries to bathe and dress, dismissing his acrid thoughts for now while he makes himself presentable for breakfast. His mind seems only to know dark places these days, his heart more familiar with bitterness now than with the erstwhile sweetness of his youth.

He leaves his bed unmade for the chambermaid to handle and then makes for his mother’s chambers. He raps on her door with his knuckles (his brother may be sorely lacking in propriety but that impudence, thankfully, does not extend to Loki) and she immediately calls for him to enter. “Mother,” Loki says as he does so, a rare smile playing on his lips. It’s sincere for once, for her. “I do hope I have not kept you waiting too long.” 

“Not at all. Come, sit.” She ushers him closer and Loki dutifully crosses the room, taking a seat at the small table laden with the finest fruits and breakfast pastries. Loki looks to his mother for permission and she inclines her head in a nod, an indulgent smile forming. “You may help yourself,” she permits him. “Eat your fill.” Their exchange, however brief, fills Frigga with a sense of nostalgia; fondly, always fondly, she recalls days of laughter and childish innocence, where the only counsel Loki and Thor sought from her was that of who should be allowed to consume the last pastry on the dish.

Now, Frigga observes how Loki seems to favour the selection of fruit instead and wonders how she did not notice sooner how things have begun to change. His withdrawal is subtle but it is happening as Odin warned her it one day would, and she feels helpless. She knows not what to do. She knows not what words to speak. It pains her to realise that her youngest son, her dearest Loki, may one day be lost to her, lost to them all, and then what will become of him? She can’t bear to think of him wandering, lost and alone... Loveless, as the curse that has been on him since he was a babe slowly, inevitably, claims all that is good, all she knows as _Loki_. 

Loki does not prompt his mother to talk, though he feels the weight of the unspoken words pressed between them. He eats his breakfast in silence under her watchful gaze and looks elsewhere, evasive. He doesn’t mean to stare but his eyes are drawn, unbidden, to the painting that adorns the far wall. It is of him and Thor as children, a memory captured and encompassed within the oils and brushwork. Frigga had insisted that they hold hands, much to Thor’s overt displeasure. Loki, though, he had felt… Warm. Safe. The smile immortalised in the painting, Loki sees, is one that is genuine and unreserved.

It scares him.

Frigga continues to watch her youngest son intently, made all the more curious by the unfathomable emotions that flicker briefly in his otherwise guarded expression and darken his eyes. It’s a small change but she is more perceptive than most. She always has been with her sons, her darling boys, and Loki in particular, who has always needed her attention in his own private, unspoken way. He’s always been so different in his manner to Thor and his brashness. “Loki,” Frigga says, anxious. 

Loki looks down, his hands forming fists in his lap as he schools his expression back to its usual indifference. “I remember,” he elucidates, his voice distant. “It was the day that you told me and Thor of the curse… You explained its effects and Thor…” Loki swallows around the lump that has risen to his throat, hands trembling imperceptibly. “He said that he’d be the one to rid me of the darkness—he vowed that he would not let what is inevitable come to pass, no matter what…”

“Loki,” Frigga utters his name once more.

Loki’s attention returns to her. He blinks and she smiles, a reassuring smile that is strained but still kind, still welcomed. “Know that Thor has not broken the vow he made then. That he alone cannot be the one to unburden you of this curse causes him regret… But you must not lose hope. You are loved Loki, and your heart is still kind. The curse will not take you as long as you care enough still to fight it. That much we know. Its hateful effect can be controlled, if not halted.”

Loki does not smile. His face is wiped clear of all trace of emotion and he is candid when he murmurs, “On that matter, Mother, I’m afraid the people of Asgard would hasten to sharpen their pitchforks and act as the voice of contention.” 

She has heard the whispers as sure as he, the rumours and taunts, so Loki does not realise the error of his words until her face falls. It hurts her, he realises all at once… To hear the truth, to be pushed into confronting it. Loki cannot blame her for pretending not to hear the people’s slanderous talk, for he would no doubt do the same if he could, if he could deceive himself with the same ease that he deceives others. “Mother,” he whispers. There’s remorse in his expression, in his posture, but never in his words. His lies never were for her ears. “As much as I relish breakfasting with you, I understand I was invited here for another purpose.”

“To talk,” Frigga confirms, unable to meet his eyes. “Your father grows weary of your antics of late, Loki. He tires of your obstinacy, your reluctance to cooperate… We are all concerned.”

Loki’s expression hardens with the mention of the All-Father, his body tensing. He wants to correct his mother, to say that they are not concerned at all but rather suspicious of his behaviour. It is out of affection for her that he refrains. The words she speaks, after all, are not her own. It’s only fitting that the words he speaks should not be his own either. “Forgive me,” he says after a moment’s consideration, smiling with all his learned charm. “I shall endeavour to cause less concern with my tricks in the future. It was not my intention to cause distress.” 

Satisfied, Frigga nods. It is a relief, she finds. To have it affirmed that Loki’s behaviour is the result of his mischievous nature offers renewed hope. “Let that be so, my son. Now, shall we move this conversation out to the gardens? It is too fair a day for us to remain indoors.”

 **-**

Loki dislikes the sun. It reminds him too much of his brother, of his blond tresses, broad smile and tan skin. It reminds him too much of his own differences, how even his skin pales in comparison to the first-born son. The heat stifles him, as do his own sour thoughts, so Loki takes to the shade, leaving his mother to her entourage, her ladies-in-waiting. He rests the back of his head against the thick trunk of his chosen tree and plucks blades of grass from the ground with nimble fingers. He peers upwards into the branches overhead, looking but not seeing.

It’s tranquil, Loki supposes, but still he feels restless, an itch under his skin that leaves him miserable. He longs for his usual pranks and mischief, for a respite from the crushing ennui he feels deep inside, but his mother’s earlier warning prevents him from reaching for the comforting tendrils of his seiðr and causing further undue havoc, as entertaining as it would be.

“Brother.”

Loki sighs. Thor _would_ come to him now, of all times. He reluctantly looks away from the boughs, laden with blossom, and instead turns his attention to his brother. Thor is breathless from sparring, or so it would appear, a slight sheen of sweat on his sun-kissed skin. Loki notices how the other’s fair hair curls in at his neck, damp from perspiration, and can’t wholly suppress a smirk at the image he presents. “Thor,” he acknowledges. “Did the Lady Sif best you in combat _again_?” His tone is mocking, derisive, and when Thor scowls he knows for certain he’s hit the nail on the head. Loki’s face brightens with glee. “Oh,” he chortles, unable to let the opportunity pass him by. “And is not this the third defeat in as many days? Brother, I fear you are losing your touch.”

“It is the heat,” Thor protests, chin lifted. He’s almost whining. “It is unbearable.”

Loki scoffs, disbelieving, but Thor remains unfazed, far too accustomed to Loki’s bite to take it to heart. He drops down unceremoniously next to Loki, shoulder-to-shoulder, and looks up at the canopy of leaves overhead, falling oddly silent. Loki glances at him from the corner of his eyes, inquisitive. It is not like Thor to be so wistful. Hesitant, Loki reaches out—not with his touch but with his seiðr, cooling the air around them. He finds humour in the way Thor’s eyes widen, darting back to Loki in an unspoken question. “Relax,” Loki orders him, like he has any right to, shifting into a more comfortable position and closing his eyes. 

Loki idly counts the silent seconds that pass by between them in his head. 

Thor keeps his silence for all of half a minute and, for the proclaimed God of Thunder, Loki thinks it could even be called an accomplishment. “Loki,” Thor says. “It was this same tree, was it not? The one we climbed as children?”

Loki hums his confirmation but doesn’t open his eyes. He can feel Thor’s gaze lingering on him even so. “We carved our names into the trunk,” he recalls. “Mother was furious when she found out.”

“Aye,” Thor laughs, bumping their shoulders. “She was a force to be reckoned with that day!”

“I’m surprised you remember,” Loki remarks after a short while. 

“I miss our childhood, Loki… More than that, I miss the time we spent together then.”

Loki opens his eyes at that. He’s met with Thor’s intent stare, irises so blue. The silence stretches between them, Thor waiting for a response and Loki at a loss for words. The Liesmith is the first to avert his gaze. He looks down at the grass, noticing how the plucked blades are slowly piling up, a visible sign of his increasing anxiety. “Our boyhood has long since come to its end, Thor.”

His words cause Thor to snap out of his reverie, a pink flush staining his cheeks. “Aye,” he concedes. Then, more amused than anything, he adds: “But you have yet to desist from the same mischievous antics that entertained us often in our childhood.”

“I do not pertain to be the coming King of Asgard,” Loki retorts. “My antics thus are of no real consequence.”

Thor’s face falls at the barbed words. “You are still a prince,” he reminds his brother. 

Loki allows him that much. His stomach churns. “Yes,” he whispers. “That I still am.”

More minutes pass by in silence before Thor speaks up once again. He places his large hand over Loki’s, ceasing the incessant grass-plucking. “Loki,” he says, using the name to draw his brother’s attention back to him, their eyes meeting. “That I should be king… Does it change things?”

Loki’s expression softens. “It changes _everything_ ,” he tells Thor without preamble, turning his hand beneath his brother’s so that their palms touch. 

“Between us,” Thor clarifies, entwining their fingers without conscious thought.

Loki looks down, a brief smile touching his lips. Moments like this are telling, he finds. He can see Thor as someone who deserves the throne in these moments. “I anticipate the coming coronation as eagerly as you do,” Loki says. “You are my brother, and my friend, and sometimes I am envious…” He lifts his gaze once more. “But you must never doubt that I love you.”

Thor’s answering grin could put even the sun to shame, Loki thinks, so bright it shines on his handsome face. “Thank you, brother,” he says. 

Loki’s heart swells and then it aches, a vicious reminder of how unnatural it is for him to feel this much uninhibited love for another.

Brother, he reminds himself, though he has never forgotten… He is Thor’s _brother_. 

Of course, Thor remains oblivious to his conflicted feelings. He moves Loki’s hand towards the bark of the tree between them. “Is our boyhood so far gone we cannot do this one thing?” he asks, tilting his head to one side in question.

Loki draws his hand back. He’s surprised but his expression remains neutral. “You wish to carve our names into the tree once more.” He doesn’t voice it as a question. He’s always been adept at reading Thor.

“I wish for our names to remain here always,” Thor confirms. “You can make it so.”

Loki does make it so, and the smile Thor offers him in return is his reward. The two of them stare at his work in silence, their names half-hidden behind the longer grass that brushes the tree trunk. Thor reaches out to touch, traces the L of Loki’s name with something akin to reverence. Loki swallows around the lump in his throat. “Father would disapprove,” he mentions, breaking Thor from whatever trance he’d fallen into this time. “Such behaviour is unsuited for a man who would be king.”

Thor gives Loki a side-long, considering glance. “I am no king yet, Loki.”

Loki hums under his breath in response, wistful. “No,” he concurs. “You’re not.”

 **-**

Loki tries in vain to concentrate on his book but Thor’s needless pacing proves to be too much of a distraction. It’s been over a week since the two of them last spoke; Odin has had cause to retain Thor’s full attention during that time. Loki knows not the intricacies, knows only that it must be an important matter of state for the All-Father to insist on Thor’s involvement. Thor is to be king, after all, and he must learn that being king is not all battles and crowns and glory. There’s a certain amount of strategy involved, politics, alliances, all manner of things that Thor once dismissed as being boring and not worth his time.

Seeing Thor now, so riled up, Loki can’t help but smile in self-satisfaction. His brother still has so much to learn and understand, and it’s Loki’s counsel that he seeks. For now, he still has purpose, and Loki knows to savour the power while it lasts. “Must you do that here?” he asks, hiding his interest behind an impassive countenance. It won’t do to let Thor know he’s curious.

Finally, Thor stops pacing the floor. He turns to fix Loki with a conflicted stare, an open book of emotion for Loki to read. Instead of addressing the reason behind his visit, Thor’s eyes drop down to the book that’s still open on Loki’s lap. “Were you given permission to remove that book from the library, Loki?” he asks, though he already knows the answer; it’s not in Loki’s nature to ask before he takes, after all.

Loki smirks, looks at Thor through his dark lashes. “You might say that,” he says with a careless shrug. He makes room enough for Thor to sit beside him on the cushioned window seat, and Thor does sit at his silent invitation. There’s a storm brewing in his expression and Loki can’t suppress an instinctive shiver. He feels anxious, desperate to know what ails his brother so that he can rid him of his troubles… Thor’s face is not one suited to such deep lines and weariness, and the self-satisfaction fades, the more Loki reads into it.

He’s made to wait a while but if there’s one virtue Loki has, it’s patience. He looks at the stars, counts them until his brother’s softened voice fills the silence. It’s peaceful. The calm before the storm, Loki realises. “When we were children,” Thor tells. “We thought ourselves brave enough to hear the most terrifying stories. Do you remember?” Loki nods, mute. “We used to beg our nursemaids to tell us, even when they insisted we were not yet of an age to hear such horrible things…” A fond smile touches Thor’s lips briefly. His eyes glaze over in reminiscence. “You were young,” he remembers. “But just as stubborn as you are now. You crawled into my bed late this one night and—”

“Thor,” Loki interjects, irritated and embarrassed. “Hurry and make your point.”

“I am,” Thor insists, watching the pink settle high on Loki’s cheeks. “Do you remember the reason you came to me that night?”

Loki doesn’t need to think too hard. “Yes,” he says. “I was…” He licks his lips, clears his throat. “The stories we were told, of the monsters... The Frost Giants.” He lets his words trail off. There’s no reason for him to confess to the fear those stories evoked; Thor bore witness to his fear back then, and he remembers it now.

It’s then that the storm unfurls. Thor’s voice rises as his temper flares. “I would kill the beasts, the entire race with my bare hands!” There’s heat in his voice, an old promise remembered between them, and Loki doesn’t know how to react to his brother’s sincere conviction, his utter devotion. Thor’s voice softens some. “That I would not see you scared again, brother. I gave my word.”

Loki exhales a trembling breath. Thor’s words hit him like a punch, leave him winded and bewildered. The ache in his chest is a reminder that he still has heart—that he can still feel emotion to this extent, even if the rest of the world beyond Thor has become muted and blurred to him of late.

“King Laufey seeks peace between our realms. If denied, there will no doubt be war to come.”

Loki’s next inhale is sharp, shocked. There has been no war between the realms, not since the Frost Giants attacked Midgard, eons ago. Odin spared Laufey’s life then, knowing the Frost Giants would pose little threat to the other realms, not without the ancient relic he stole from them with his victory. It was in that battle that the All-Father lost his eye, Loki recalls. “And what does the All-Father seek?” Loki demands to know. 

“He thinks peace favourable to the alternative,” Thor recounts. “That the feud has lasted long enough, and it’s time now to bring an end to it. Alone, the Frost Giants pose no considerable threat to Asgard, but there are rumours of them having acquired some powerful allies…”

Loki frowns at the explanation. “Surely it cannot be so simple. What are the terms?” He’s not talking to Thor as much as he is himself. He doesn’t wait for an answer but rather pieces together the puzzle himself, talking aloud while Thor listens. “They want the Casket,” he breathes, realisation dawning. “They wish to restore Jotunheim to its former state.”

In theory, it makes sense. Without the Casket, Jotunheim has suffered, its people have suffered, and there is only so much suffering a king can allow before pride must take a back-seat to necessity… But, as much as Loki tries to be reasonable, the tales of his childhood remain clear in his mind, stories of the Frost Giants, of their ruthlessness and hate… He can’t see them as people when he knows them as monsters. “Peace is a small price,” he says, looking to Thor. “What else does the All-Father seek from these beasts?”

Loki needs to know, needs to understand, but Thor only shakes his head. Odin’s reasons are his own, and Thor is not privy to those reasons, not even as Odin’s chosen successor. “I do not know,” he admits. “I only know that Father believes the trade to be fair and in Asgard’s best interest.”

“Odin is an old fool to believe such tripe,” Loki snipes, irritable. 

“Brother!” Thor rebukes. 

But even Thor’s protest is half-hearted this time. He doesn’t know how to feel, who he should side with.

Is it true? 

Is the All-Father’s decision foolish or wise?

He has always trusted his father to make the right decision but now… His heart tells him otherwise and so, it seems, does Loki. 

Loki’s gaze slides back down to the text in front of him and Thor’s follows. The language is one he’s unfamiliar with but for the ancient book to hold Loki’s interest as it does, he knows all too well what it must contain within in its pages. “Will you never tire of using these tricks and illusions, Loki?” he wonders aloud with a frown. 

“Foolishness must run in the line of kings,” his brother simply returns with a sneer.

Loki does this on purpose, Thor knows. He turns the conversation in whatever direction he so favours, but still Thor bristles as Loki wants him to. “I am no fool, Loki,” he denies, hisses the words through his gritted teeth. He lets himself be lured forward into his brother’s snare, welcomes it with open arms, in fact.

Closing the book, Loki’s full attention falls on Thor instead, expectant. “ _Prove it_ ,” he dares.

There is nothing for Loki that Thor would not do. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Read [MintySquirrel's](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MintySquirrel/pseuds/MintySquirrel) Gardens of Asgard drabble [ here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/911864)
> 
> Knelt beneath their favourite tree, Thor closes his eyes and reminds himself of that which he has never forgotten.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loki did not mean for this to happen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr](http://waldostiel.tumblr.com)  
> [Ask Loki RP Tumblr](http://asklovelessloki.tumblr.com) and [Ask Thor RP Tumblr](http://asklovelessthor.tumblr.com)

Loki blinks the frost free from where it catches on his lashes and peers ahead. He squints into the unremitting blizzard but all he can see of Jotunheim is ice, snow and ruin. His brother’s cape appears stark red against the endless white that surrounds them. It billows in the wind like an emblem of their home realm, and Loki knows not what to make of it. It’s a warm colour, he muses, his mind dull from the insistent cold, but a boastful one. It’s suited to Thor on many levels. Their walk through Jotunheim is not the valiant march Thor intended for it to be, however; their sombre tread is more reminiscent of a funeral procession, in fact. Still, Loki brings up the rear with an eerie smile, one as cold in nature as the desolate land Thor has led them to, because Thor’s resolve has not slackened. Even as his friends demur and endeavour to convince him to act in Asgard’s favour, Loki holds precedence over them, and Loki has asked Thor to prove his nerve—to be a true king. 

“The storm!” someone shouts over the prevailing wind. It must be one of the Warriors Three because the voice is decidedly masculine, low and rich in timbre. Distorted as it is by the storm, however, Loki can deduce no more than that from his chosen distance. Perhaps it is Hogun, who has always had a way with words and who is notorious for presaging unfavourable outcomes. Hogun the Grim, they often call him in jest, but Loki thinks him the most rational-minded of the Warriors Three, the most sensible by far, though he would never deign to say so aloud. Out of all Thor’s friends, it is Hogun who he has come to like best for all his renowned wisdom and taciturnity. “We must find and take shelter now,” the voice that Loki presumes to be Hogun’s continues. “Quickly, before it worsens!”

It’s been hours since their arrival on Jotunheim and the snowstorm has shown no indication that it might soon abate. To take shelter would indeed be prudent, but Thor isn’t best known for his being cautious… Determined, he presses on, the Warriors Three and Sif in succession, and Loki at their tail. The blizzard strikes out at them in response, wind and snow and sleet. It’s almost as though the realm itself wishes to engage in battle, wishes to scare them back to the comfort and safety of Asgard. 

Loki lifts an arm, shielding his face from the worst of the bitter cold debris as it blows towards him in a violent swirl. Further ahead, he sees Thor falter with his next step, tiring fast as he braves the brunt of the frozen land’s wrath. Sif is at his side in an instant, much to Loki’s distaste. Thor seems to listen to her when she tries to reason with him; he nods in assent, at least, with what she says. Loki scowls at their backs, unnoticed where he stands in the dark shade of their lustre. 

Shelter it is then.

Loki should feel grateful… And he is… Truly, he is… Only, he wishes he had been the one to insist… It should be Loki at Thor’s side, after all, not Sif… But instead Loki lurks behind his brother now, and all he has back there to keep him company are sinful whispers, whispers that he – in turn – passes to Thor, fuelled to do so by mere morbid curiosity and an inclination for chaos.

For discord.

It is what he is known for.

He sometimes wonders how far Thor would go to save him, what he would do if offered the incentive of a cure… And this is his answer… It makes Loki feel powerful, to have such a solid hold on the God of Thunder… Whether he intends for it to be a leash or noose, Loki is uncertain. The rope has been strung around Thor’s neck and Loki… Loki can’t see the reason, the relevance of it... He knows, distantly, that such devotion should mean the world to him but instead he feels nothing but detached acknowledgement of the sentiment.

Idly, though, he wonders if it is perhaps the realm’s own distinct chill and hate that has burrowed its way deep down inside of him, or if the dark thoughts he harbour belong to him and to him alone… Is there no one but his accursed self to blame? 

Is there no one else but him?

-

Disillusioned, Loki regards the vast wasteland that is Jotunheim while Thor and his friends busy themselves with their impromptu shelter—a shelter that is essentially just an opening in the side of a mountain, a narrow crack that opens into a wider cavern but will shield them from the worst of the wind and snow. The self-proclaimed Warriors had been ecstatic with their find, disheartened only when Loki curled his lip with a sneer and loudly professed them to be idiots.

It didn’t stop him from taking to their shelter, however, when dusk brought a colder chill to the already frigid air.

From the stories he’d heard in his childhood, Loki had come to imagine something different of Jotunheim, something more. He’d envisioned ice fortresses and turrets – impenetrable structures laced in frost and Seiðr – more imposing even than Asgard’s own esteemed citadel. He’d envisioned monstrous beasts standing vigil with horrid blue skin, blood-red eyes and tremendous fangs secreting black venom… The beasts (for what else could they be called?) would be clad in protective armour, even outside the battlefield, communicating among themselves with barbarous tongues, language course and unrefined… Devouring the soft, supple flesh of stolen Æsir children… Killing their own kin in want of their fill, driven only ever by the sickening greed and selfishness of their race—

Loki shivers.

But, as it turns out, there are no ice fortresses in Jotunheim. This isn’t one of Poki the Brave’s adventures, a made-up story Thor would tell Loki, a child in want of distraction and comfort, when he crawled into his bed at night, scared of the storm… No, it isn’t, and there’s a hard truth to be found in how Jotunheim really is—cold, dead and silent. 

Ruined.

That’s the grim reality. 

What victory is there to be found against a half-dead enemy? What glory?

Loki looks to see Thor and the others huddled back in the shelter. Their voices are hushed but Loki has no need to hear what is being said. He knows without hearing, can read it in their solemn expressions and in the rigid set of Thor’s broad shoulders. 

How quickly they come to doubt him, those who his brother would call friends.

Loki sneers, turns his back on them once more to watch the raging snowstorm from the mouth of the cave. He straightens his posture, lifts his chin and schools his expression into one of utter indifference. 

It won’t do to let them believe he’s affected by their barbed words, for he is not.

Loki is not scared of the storm either. He is too old for such fears. 

He doesn’t need Thor to distract him with his stories and warm embraces as he once would have without needing to be asked, but he wants… He wants. And perhaps that is the most painful realisation of all… That still, he wants… After all this time, far less has changed than Loki would make it seem.

“Come, Brother,” Thor calls to him, exuberant, as though reading his thoughts. “Sit with us.”

Loki winces at the sheer volume. 

His brother’s voice could shake mountains; he has no doubt of that. Given their current location, it’s not the most comforting thought either. He turns around, his arms crossed over his chest. “Must I?” he asks, dryly. “I’d hate to intrude. You and your friends seem to have much to discuss.” Much to discuss about him, from what Loki could tell, about his motives in particular.

“ _Our_ friends,” Thor amends without preamble. He’s such a fool, Loki thinks. Naïve. He sees too much good in the world where there is naught but darkness for Loki. Sadness. “Sit here next to me, Loki, and join in our stories. Is not Volstagg the most wonderful of all storytellers? Besides myself, of course.” 

Loki tracks the motion with sharp eyes as Thor pats his hand on the ground to his left, an encouraging smile spread across his lips. He hesitates for the briefest of moments before crossing to Thor’s side, kneeling next to him and deliberately avoiding the eyes of Thor’s friends… Not his... Not now. Had they ever been his friends at all? Loki struggles to recall a time where their taunts were made in good humour. Not ever, he decides, swallowing the bitterness that rises to his throat with the thought. “It would appear you’ve been subjected to one too many of Volstagg’s vainglorious tales,” Loki sniffs, disdainful. “Even his most maladroit actions in battle, he later boasts are expedient after a tankard of ale.”

“Aye,” Volstagg cheers, not at all deterred. “’Twas indeed a tactical move, my friends! If I hadn’t fallen over that barrel, we would not be here to enjoy this fine day, and the many fine meals that are still to come with the morrows that lie ahead—”

Exasperated, Loki sighs.

Of course Volstagg, the gluttonous oaf, would find cause to talk about his insatiable appetite, of all things. Of course. Loki would sooner brave Jotunheim’s harsh climate than listen to them talk such drivel… But the small smile Thor sends in his direction – a mixture of relief and gratitude – keeps him seated, weighs him down like an anchor and steals his breath.

So much for Loki having the upper-hand. 

With Thor, it feels like he never does.

-

Loki knows not how much time has passed, only that their absence is sure to have been noticed by the All-Father now. Thor knows it too, if the pensive silence he falls into is any indication… Loki can see how heavily it weighs on him, his conscience, and it almost makes him feel remorse for his lies… Almost. Thor’s unwavering dedication comforts Loki as much as it does guilt him.

“This is your doing, Liesmith,” Sif accuses over the loud roar of the wind. It’s the first time she’s spoken to him since their departure from Asgard. She slows her pace until she walks at Loki’s side, the two of them lagging behind the Warriors Three. Thor is but a red speck in the distance, completely unaware of what occurs in his shadow. “For you, he would disobey his father, our king.”

Loki clicks his tongue, disinterested. “And for whom do _you_ disobey our king, Lady Sif?” he asks without dither. His tone is light - playful, even - but the words carry hidden depth and more blatant derision. 

If the implication startles Sif, she does well to hide it. Instead of answering Loki’s, she asks another question of her own: “What of the artefact?” she asks. “Does it truly exist or is this merely a trick or whim?”

Loki draws the furs around him tighter. Truthfully, the cold does not bother him as it does the others, but when Thor offered him extra protection from the chill… Loki had been unable to refuse his brother… How eager he’d been to assist, even when Loki had no need of it. “It exists,” Loki answers after a moment, sincere. 

“And it has power enough to counter the curse?” Sif presses, wary still, and with good reason.

Loki does not answer. 

‘No!’ his silence screams and, ‘Don’t you see? There is no cure. None at all.’

Sif leaves Loki behind. Her expression is hard— knowing. Convinced, she makes haste to take her suspicions to Thor. 

It’s not until much later, though, that Thor confronts Loki over the accusation.

The sun has set and the storm has worsened with the drop in temperature. “Brother,” Thor says by way of greeting. He sits down next to Loki at the opening of the cave. There are many caves to be found in the side of the razor-sharp mountains, offering them refuge each night in their passage through Jotunheim’s wasteland. Mjölnir allows Thor to travel ahead but so far there has been no sign of the Frost Giants or where they dwell. “Lady Sif has expressed her concerns to me,” Thor continues when Loki does not return his greeting in kind.

“Of course she has,” Loki returns, unsurprised. “She would be a fool not to, and Lady Sif is no fool.”

“I told her that you would not lie to me, Brother,” Thor says firmly, stubbornly.

Loki simply gives Thor a look in answer: one eyebrow up, blatantly skeptical. Loki’s lies come easier than his truths, after all, and Thor is no exception to the falsehoods he so often favours over honesty, though he might wish to be. Thor knows this as well as Loki does.

Thor’s shoulders slump and, for all his intimidating stature, he seems suddenly very small in Loki’s presence. “Not about this, Loki,” Thor amends his earlier sentiment, almost beseeching. “Never about this.” 

It isn’t a question but Thor continues to look at Loki, waiting for a response, for him to either confirm or deny the words. Loki licks his lips. “I would never,” he says, and it’s perhaps the biggest lie he’s ever told. It almost catches on his tongue, proficient though it is in mendacity. Silver Tongue, they call him— the Warriors Three, especially. Suddenly, his silver tongue feels more like lead. “I would not ask for you to do this without having good reason, Thor.”

Thor claps him on the shoulder and smiles. “I do not doubt you, Brother,” he proclaims without a vestige of suspicion. “We will seize the relic from the Frost Giants.” He squeezes Loki’s shoulder, punctuating his words. “Together, Loki. We will see you free of this terrible curse at last.”

Loki tries to smile as Thor continues but deep-down, he aches. Listening to Thor talk of the celebratory feasts waiting for them back in Asgard, it makes his stomach turn… And when Thor hesitantly adds, “Even the All-Father could not possibly deny the importance of this mission when he welcomes you home cured,” Loki draws his knees to his chest and stops listening entirely.

How can Thor be so trusting? So foolish?

Loki knows there will be no feast waiting for them upon their return… That their return will not be in celebration at all but rather in commiseration. There will be naught but Odin’s wrath and Frigga’s worry— an argument at best, a war at worst, and all of it… All of it will be Loki’s fault… And Thor’s, for trusting in a brother who never deserved his trust... A brother who never deserved _him_ …

That night feels colder to Loki than all the nights preceding it. He watches Thor’s back and listens to the even breaths that tell him his brother is deep in slumber. Feeling brave, he edges closer until Thor’s heat could suffocate him. It feels like penance of a sort, and he hushes Thor when he mumbles, “Loki?” without ever truly waking, his voice muffled by the furs he pushes his face into, open-mouthed.

“I’m sorry, Thor,” Loki whispers to his brother’s prone form. “I never meant… I only wanted to see.”

Even Loki isn’t sure what he means.

Thor’s only response, though, is to give a rumbling snore.

Of course, Loki thinks, smiling despite himself— despite everything. Of course Thor would be loud even in sleep. For a moment, Loki feels like he’s a child again. When he closes his eyes, he imagines that the two of them are back in Asgard, that Thor’s arms are wrapped around him, shielding him from a non-existent foe... He forgets about the Warriors Three and Sif, and sleeps peacefully for the first time since they arrived on Jotunheim, tucked close to his brother’s side, all defences down. 

He wakes to Thor’s hand on his shoulder come the morn, something soft in his expression as he looks down at Loki. “Come, Brother,” Thor urges him up. His hand moves from Loki’s shoulder to rest briefly at the nape of his neck, dark hair tickling his palm. Loki stiffens under his touch but Thor only laughs, loud and heartfelt. He leans close to whisper into Loki’s ear, conspiratorial, “You look far younger in sleep, Loki... It has been a long time since I have seen you that much at ease.”

Loki’s lips twitch. He wants to feel embarrassed, indignant, but all he feels is warmth. It’s the same, he thinks, as when Thor took his hand so long ago and they posed for the painting in their mother’s chambers. There had been much confusion, much fear in his heart back then, but Thor’s hand remained constant, reassuring, and it anchored him. “It’s been a long time since I’ve had need of your comfort, Thor,” Loki answers after a while. He moves out of Thor’s reach, rolling over and sitting up. He can hear the Warriors Three and Sif talking nearby but it is only Loki and Thor who remain in the cave. “I’m no longer the child I once was.”

Thor retracts his hand and watches Loki from a distance, considering. Finally, he smiles; his lips stretch into that familiar grin which Loki both loves and loathes. “Aye,” Thor says. “But still your elbows are sharp enough to bruise.”

-

Loki traipses over what feels like an endless expanse of snow and ice. Undisturbed white stretches out beneath his feet in all directions, and blurs into something limitless—an infinite sea of nothing. Loki stares ahead at Thor’s red cape so as not to drown in the interminability of it all. Jotunheim is in a state of perpetual cessation. Loki wants to close his eyes and block it out… But he can’t. The snow and ice has slowly, silently, crept into his mind like a web of frost over a window; even when he closes his eyes, all he sees is the endless, blinding white and all he feels is the terrible, biting cold.

And then there’s Thor. 

Red cape fanned out behind him, rippling in the harsh winds, Thor looks every bit the king he’s destined to become… But if Loki were to try and reach out to him, to grasp his brother’s red cape in his hands and hold on, his touch would reach only Thor’s shadow. His fingers would slip through the empty space and find no purchase there. There would be nothing in his hands but a phantom feeling, a ghost of what could have been… He should never have let go; he should never have let his hand fall from Thor’s that day they were told of his curse… But he did, and though Thor took it back again, Loki has never been the same since. 

Every step Thor takes towards being a better king is a step he takes away from Loki, and all the proof in the nine realms would not be enough to convince Loki otherwise… Yet he wants to scream his frustration as Thor does prove his loyalty, over and over again: let this be enough, Loki thinks desperately. Let this be enough. Why isn’t it ever enough? And sometimes he thinks (only ever sometimes, only ever privately) that perhaps… Perhaps it’s not Thor who steps away from him, but rather the same in reverse. Has it been Loki pulling back from Thor all this time, forcing there to be distance between them where there need not be?

One day, Loki realises, the red of Thor’s cape blurring as he stares… One day, there will be no love or kindness left in his heart… Not for Frigga, not for Thor… And he wonders how that could ever be. How could he not love his own mother? How could he not love _Thor_?

He shakes his head of the thoughts, and that’s when he sees Thor turn around. “Friends!” he shouts excitedly back to them, but Loki can barely make out the words even with Thor’s booming voice. He hears, “Come! Make haste!”, and that’s all he needs to hurry, anticipation causing his heart to race. For once, he charges ahead of Sif and the Warriors Three, his mind reaching for the threads of his seiðr on instinct. 

But there are no Frost Giants pursuing Thor— no enemy at all to be seen.

There are… Houses… Loki isn’t entirely sure what else to call them, for they are far different to any houses he has known before.

Loki stands next to his brother, his chest heaving with exertion as he looks down at the strange, empty structures— ice and stone, basic and ancient. Sif and the Warriors Three crowd around them to look too, weapons drawn. The construction is shoddy, crumbling in places, and for a moment all Loki is able to see is the devastation, the remnants of war that should not still be there… Not after all the time that has passed since then… And he forgets about the beasts, about the stories he’s heard of them and of their supposed monstrous natures.

It is, Loki thinks, staring sadly at the wrecked homes, his fear momentarily forgotten—

“Repulsive,” Thor proclaims. 

Loki nods distractedly while Thor’s warrior friends rally around him, offering their own take on the findings. “A mockery,” one agrees. “The brutes play at being Æsir; they build houses in pretense of civilisation when we know them, the Jötnar, for the savage creatures they truly are.”

“Can you even imagine it?” laughs another, jovial. “The Giants living as we do?”

“My friend, are you considering taking a Jotun bride to sate your curiosity?” 

“Never!”

“I would sooner court a rabid boar,” Thor declares, impassioned, though the question had not been directed at him at all. It matters not; the Warriors laugh with him all the same and their banter extends to include him in fairness. 

“His bride would have to kneel to kiss him.”

“She? The Frost Giants have no gender. I fear it would be no bride at all!”

It continues— back and forth, the cheerful taunts and mocking and impromptu sparring between the Warriors and Thor, all four of them forgetting the seriousness of the mission in their excitement to have found something. Even Hogun cracks a smile once or twice as the obscene insults are thrown about. The language used is language that should never be used in polite company, never mind the company of two princes, but Thor does not seem to care much and so Loki leaves him to his raillery, clambers down from their vantage point to investigate their findings with a closer inspection.

Loki is more interested in the buildings than the conversation; he finds it fascinating, the crumbled stone and dust that seems too thick in the cool air… A whole new culture he has never explored, for he has never had want nor need to… The closer Loki comes to the houses, the more anxious he becomes. There’s a hum or buzz under his skin, prickling the back of his neck, and it’s not until he’s a fair distance from the others that he realises the reason behind his unease. It’s silent. The air is still. All he can hear is Thor’s loud voice and the laughter of his friends. Closer, having started to follow his lead, is Sif. Her breathing is hard and panicked as she comes to a similar conclusion. Loki hears that too.

“Thor!”

“Loki!”

Loki isn’t sure who shouts first or if their voices meld together in unison. A dagger pierces the air and glints underneath the cold sun. It is a weapon made wholly of ice; sharp enough to effortlessly slice through their comparatively fragile skin, though not at all like the blades used by the Æsir. After the first, a barrage follows in swift succession, and it’s too late now for them to prepare an attack or move into a strategic formation. Their group is divided into two, weakened from the journey through Jotunheim and caught off-guard. 

It’s an impossible battle from the start, and Loki knows it, even as he lashes out with all the strength he can muster, eyes darting wildly about him in search of Thor, in search of the Warriors Three even, but he can see no one besides Sif, whose eyes are wide and whose posture is tense, and their previously unseen assailants—big and looming, blue-skinned and red-eyed. 

Monsters. 

Frost Giants. 

Too many of them.

Sif attacks with a cry, wielding her double-edged spear, but Loki cannot spare focus to ensure that she remains safe. He doesn’t care to either. He uses tricks and wiles, his mind racing with tactics and defence and seiðr, all the while straining his ears to hear Thor—and how long has it been? Why can’t he hear his brother? Thor is normally so loud, impossible not to hear, and what Loki wouldn’t give for him to shut up… But not now… He can’t stand the silence, the not knowing, when it could mean that Thor is hurt… Or worse…

Surely he would know. 

Surely the world would feel different somehow for Thor not being in it. 

Loki hears Sif shout out in pain. He hears the clatter of her spear falling to the ground. He breathes in sharply and presses on, though he tires from his excessive use of magic and has to improvise with throwing knives (the weapons were a powerless but attractive gift, he remembers absently; he’d received the set of five fine blades out of pity, most likely, at the same time Thor was gifted with the mighty Mjölnir).

Fast reflexes and deft hands aren’t enough to hold the Frost Giants off forever, even if Loki succeeds in doing so for a time. He backs up, cornered against a wall of frozen stone, and it’s only then that he feels truly helpless, surrounded by an expanse of white and the hideous beasts drawing ever closer. They are too great in number, and Loki is alone. He knows not of his brother, of Thor’s fate and the fate of his loyal warriors, but he knows that help is not coming. 

He does not deserve to be saved either. 

It was his lie that brought them out here, after all.

Still, Loki did not mean for this to happen. 

He had intended to shield them from view and use his stealth and cunning to steal from the Giants; by the time the loss of the precious artefact was noticed, they would be back home in Asgard, safe. Of course, the act would put an end to any talk of peace between the two realms, but Loki had felt that too would be for the best— the All-Father was a fool for even entertaining the idea. 

A war, Loki had anticipated.

Losing Thor? Never. 

Distracted by his thoughts, Loki fails to evade the sharp edge of an ice-forged knife. It catches against the skin of his cheek and he winces more at the cold than the pain, a slow trickle of blood falling down his face like a single tear-drop. Loki grits his teeth and refuses to make a sound. 

But then he sees. 

Somewhere far behind the Giants, Thor’s red cape is a splash of red amongst a sea of blue.

Reckless.

Outnumbered.

Loki chokes, or perhaps he doesn’t— perhaps it’s Sif who chokes, gasping for breath where she lies, the snow beneath her stained with blood. Her face is pale, lips pursed with pain and painted red, but she looks at Loki with recognition, her fingers twitching as though she means to reach out to him but cannot find the strength to. 

Loki turns his back as Sif draws her last breath. It is too late for her. He drops his weapons to the ground and holds his hands up in surrender. “I am Loki of Asgard,” he addresses the Frost Giant who stands closest to him. His voice does not waver. He holds his head high, outwardly as confident as a prince of Asgard should be. “Spare my friends and you have my word that I will come willingly.”

In answer, the beast puts a blade to his throat, crimson eyes gleaming with malice as he peers down at Loki from his great height. Up close, Loki is able to distinguish the intricate formation of ridged patterns on the Giant’s blue skin, unique to each individual… He can see how the Giant’s hair, black as a moonless night, falls down his back in a braid that has come loose with battle… But mostly, he sees those eyes, as red as the blood that has seeped into the snow all around them… They are the eyes of a heartless monster, of a cold-blooded killer. 

At first, Loki thinks that his words have not been understood—that perhaps the Giant will choose to take his life rather than accept the terms of his surrender… A prince is of more use alive than dead, certainly, but would that logic occur to a savage such as this one? Loki starts to open his mouth to protest, to lie through his teeth, to say something… But then suddenly, without warning, the Giant throws his head back and a loud, guttural noise fills the air.

It resounds through the vast wastelands of Jotunheim, terrible and bestial, and Loki wants to cover his ears with his hands but he doesn’t dare move while the sharp edge of the blade is held so close to his neck. Instead, he holds his breath and waits, though he knows not what he should expect to happen. 

The fighting stops.

The fighting stops, but the knife does not move from where it’s poised, ready to land the killing strike should he give the wielder cause to. It would be quick, Loki thinks, staring up into the red, red eyes that bear down on him. He feels no fear; Thor is no longer in imminent danger, the Giants have retreated.

“As you wish, little prince.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything that Thor touches turns golden; every word that he utters is hope

“Ása-Thor.” The Giant’s voice resounds without strain, without effort. The authoritative tone echoes across the battlefield, and in it there’s a tacit order to desist. Thor, though, is too lost in his berserkr-like rage to take notice, let alone follow the unvoiced instruction. The unfocused haze that clouds over his blue irises is one Loki remembers well from battles past. 

In the midst of combat, Thor often enters a state of single-minded offense where all he’s aware of is the perceived threat in front of him, and all he sees is each immediate coming blow. He doesn’t take note of his surroundings. He doesn’t envision an aftermath to the battle in which he’s presently fighting… All there is for Thor is the now, the war’s inevitable progression, and all he can feel is the heat of it, the fire singing loudly, burning like lust in his warrior’s blood…

For the Æsir, wars have been known to span over millennia. 

It’s the reason Thor needs Loki at his side, a tactician, a strategist, not only to balance his reckless impulsiveness but to pull him back from the brink, bring him back to himself when the war has at last come to its end.

“Come here and fight!” Thor demands, roars, but his loudest voice is a mere whisper in the land of Giants. Mjölnir is like an extension of his arm, how smoothly he wields her, bone seeming almost to flow into handle, and all around him the snow is littered with the tall prone bodies of Frost Giants. In death, their vivid blue skin fades to stony-grey and their red eyes turn glassy. They look like sculptures, effigies made of stone, but Thor does not stop to look upon them. “Fight me,” he shouts a second time. “Craven beasts!”

It’s not fear that has the Giants retreat. The one commanding the squadron, the one who holds a blade of ice to Loki’s vulnerable throat, does not spare even a glance for his dead brethren, felled by Thor’s hand and lust for battle. If he cares at all for their deaths, there’s no outward indication. He leads Loki forward and repeats, almost snarling, “Ása-Thor,” and then, the sharp ice sheening under the cold tremulous Jotunheim sun, he asks, “Would you see your brother bleed?”

His chest heaving with exertion, Thor turns at last. His wild eyes find Loki’s and he freezes in place, save for the rapid rise and fall of his chest. “Brother,” he chokes out, alarmed and unable to conceal his unease. There’s a raw, desperate edge to his voice and Loki endeavours to remain calm in response, to placate his brother with only his presence and lead them both to a safe outcome. Thor’s eyes, though, harden when he notices the cut on Loki’s cheek in his scrutiny. It’s a superficial wound but, nevertheless, blood has indeed been spilt.

To Thor, that is unforgivable.

He turns his attention to Loki’s captor. “You will unhand him now,” Thor all but growls, low and dangerous. He spins Mjölnir’s short handle in his grip and it’s meant as a warning. His eyes narrow with the empty threat. Though many Frost Giants have been slain at his hand this day, there are still far too many for the battle to ever end in their favour.

Still, Thor cares not for the odds; he would take on the entire nine realms at once for even the smallest chance of keeping Loki safe from harm.

It’s a somewhat misguided sentiment, but Thor means well. 

He always does.

Loki almost smiles, but the smile is swallowed by a grimace as the blade presses closer. The cold edge nicks the pale skin of his throat, quick and purposeful, to match the nick already on his cheek. “Your brother comes willingly, son of Odin,” the Giant loudly declares, though his actions seem to belie his words. When the only other alternative is certain death, there is little ‘willingness’ to be found in choosing whether or not to surrender, after all. “Either do the same or watch now as I slit his throat…” He smiles then, the Giant, and it’s all cruel intent and teeth like shattered glass, as razor-sharp and imposing as the icy mountain peaks themselves. His blood-red eyes gleam with pure hatred. “The decision is yours,” he continues, derisive. “Would you see your brother _die_ , Ása-Thor?”

Hatred casts its mirror reflection from red irises to blue, and it’s no less deadly when found in his brother’s steely gaze than that of a monster, Loki thinks. Cornered, defeated, Thor’s strong grip slackens around the handle of his beloved weapon, his ever faithful Mjölnir; she slips from his loose hold and falls to the ground below with a dull, despondent thud, the noise muted by the thick cushion of white snow beneath them.

It’s a noise that sounds an awful lot like failure.

Loki knows Thor well enough to know that’s what he’s thinking when his gaze drops with his hammer. 

Pleased, the Giant’s thin blue lips curl into a vicious sneer around his sharp teeth. “Come then, young princes of Asgard,” he mocks them heartily in his address, victory clinging to his voice as much as it does his triumphant stance. He seems taller in the light of his supremacy, a creature of nightmares and proud of the title. “Most honoured guests of the noble Æsir race.” There’s laughter then, and Loki cannot wholly suppress a shiver in response to the sound. Laughing loudest, the commanding Giant grabs him by the hair and makes to pull him along by the fistful of black locks. It’s degrading, but Loki cannot resist the callous treatment, not while the deadly point of an ice-forged dagger lingers at his throat. “Allow me to show you to the ‘guest room’, you and your friends, that your stay here may be a comfortable one.”

Loki hisses at the first hard tug but then swiftly falls silent. Thor’s gaze remains fixed on him the entire time, as though scared to lose sight of him now… And Loki wants to make some inwardly disparaging remark, if only to find some semblance of normalcy among all the madness, but finds that he is similarly unable to look away. All at once, the hopelessness of their situation feels suddenly very tangible, all-consuming, and Loki thinks he could drown in the depth of it as seen in Thor’s eyes alone.

He doesn’t look away, not once.

 **-**

Begrudgingly, Loki can’t help but admire the design of the ‘guest room’; the holding cell the Giant shoves them into is impenetrable, surprising for such an underdeveloped race as the Frost Giants.

He isn’t sure what he expected.

For all it looks flimsy, their prison is actually as secure as those found on Asgard, and Loki feels the drain on his seiðr the moment the cell is locked behind them. The nearer he stands to the foreign sigils etched onto the cold stone walls, the more exhausted his powers become, sapped. Loki makes a point to keep away from the runes, standing closer to the bars while avoiding touching the frozen metal. It brings him comfort that he can still feel some semblance of his seiðr, even if the frustration remains that he is unable to fully harness it.

But, even with that inner frustration, Loki is undoubtedly the calmest. As soon as the blade no longer poses an immediate threat to his brother’s well-being, Thor’s eerie composure leaves him in a rush. He shouts, screams and demands answers; he makes threats on the lives of the silent Frost Giant sentries and in the same breath requests an audience with their king. Loki holds his tongue as one question is repeated over and over, but to no avail as their guards remain stiff and unaccommodating. “Where is Sif?”

‘She fell to the floor with the same thud as your hammer, dear Brother,” Loki thinks but does not say. ‘She fell to the floor in failure and defeat, and it is our fault.’ A manic smile twists his lips but Loki hides it as best he can, taking a seat on the hard floor while the others continue to stand, raging against their reticent sentinels. 

“Where is Sif?” They demand to know. “Where have you taken her, beast?”

Loki looks down at his hands, bound to his silence, and marvels at how clean they are, how pure in spite of his sin, his trespasses… His guilt should be obvious, written across his skin like a confession for all to bear witness to, but the others remain oblivious. They are blind to him, as they have always been; only, this time, it’s in Loki’s favour. 

He listens to their shouts until darkness falls, exhaustion lending itself to despair. Then there remains naught but silence, thick and uncomfortable, filled with a shared and unspoken sentiment— the mourning of a friend lost in battle, a comrade fallen long before her time.

Sleep does not come to them, even then, but dawn does hours later.

The Frost Giant who’d led them to their prison returns with the pale light of day, donned in scraps of worn leather and silver pelt. It does little to cover the strange blue skin, but the Giant doesn’t seem to feel the cold of Jotunheim as they do. His hair is braided down his back once more, the inky-black locks sweeping as low as his waist, decorated with frosted beads and threaded with jewels the exact same colour as his eyes, ruby-red. 

Even unarmed, the Giant is no less terrifying. 

“Asgard’s king shall come here to barter, to beg for the freedom of his sons,” he sneers, peering at them through the bars. His gaze settles first on Thor and Loki, and then moves to the Warriors Three in turn. “You will run along home with a message, Asgardians, that we request— no, we demand an audience with the All-Father.” He leans back, arms crossed over his broad chest, and smirks.

“You should know the All-Father does not beg anything of monsters,” Thor snarls, taking a threatening step closer only to be stopped by Fandral’s hand on his shoulder, forcing him to remain still.

“My friend,” Fandral addresses Thor, voice pleasant and placating, speaking on behalf of the other Warriors with their silent consent. “Thor.” His hand squeezes, drawing Thor’s attention from the Giant, back to him. “We will not leave. Know that we will stand by your side in this fight, as in every other.”

Dispassionate, the Giant watches their interactions, how the Warriors come to stand behind their friend in a silent show of support, further demonstrating their unwavering loyalty to him, their future king. “Then you will die,” he says at last, simply, pausing a moment to allow the words to sink in. “As _she_ died.”

His words are chosen carefully, designed to hurt as much as their cell was designed to hold them— to provoke. Loki sighs, his eyes falling closed and his face falling into his hands. He murmurs a soft, “Damn,” under his breath, because he knows all too well the response that’s to come.

There’s a beat of silence and then, predictably, Thor lurches forward. Fandral’s hand is knocked from his shoulder with the force and suddenness of the movement. He grabs the bars of their icy prison in a white-knuckled grip and all but shakes them in his fury, drawing himself up to his full height and bringing his face closer to their captor’s. “You will pay for this, beast. I will make you pay, your entire race, for that which you have done!”

“Will you really, princess?” the Giant asks, plainly mocking, mirroring Thor’s stance and bringing his hands up to touch the bars just barely, his touch sweeping lightly over the cold metal. “How?”

“I would kill you with my bare hands,” Thor growls, too angry to notice the cold frost where it creeps along the bars like ivy up a pillar, a web of ice stretching out from where the Giant’s hand touches, drawing closer to him with each moment.

“Thor,” Loki warns, half-hearted because he knows better than to interrupt his brother’s threats even to act as the voice of reason, but his warning comes a second too late. The Frost Giant was never truly unarmed, Loki realises, because their favoured weapon is one they will forever be armed with, so long as there is cold in the air and in their very being to be utilised. 

“I think it more likely,” the Giant drawls, watching in amusement as Thor stumbles backwards with a loud shout of pain, clutching his frostbitten hands to his chest. Loki sees that the skin has turned black where the cold seeped into it. “That I should kill you with my bare hands, little prince. You have an hour to make your decision. Do you allow your friends to live, princeling? Or do you sentence them to their deaths as you sentenced the shieldmaiden to hers, coming here uninvited?”

Thor says nothing to that, his nostrils flaring as he draws in a sharp, pained breath.

An hour later, the Warriors Three are released.

 **-**

Loki sits next to Thor, his brother’s hand held in his. A Frost Giant stands vigil outside the cell but he does not speak. His head is bare, a trait that seems to be somewhat common among the Giants from what Loki can tell, with narrow bone-like crests. The ridges on his blue skin form intricate patterns that stretch across the wide span of his rib cage, perfectly symmetrical. Loki turns Thor’s hand over and examines the frostbitten skin in silence, the ugly black that extends from his calloused palm to the tips of his fingers, stopping only at his wrist. He stares at the discolouration, as though his gaze alone could somehow alleviate the pain of it… It can’t and, with the runes blocking access to his seiðr, Loki feels useless.

“Loki,” Thor says. His voice is croaky with disuse, thick with emotion Loki does not and does not want to understand.

Loki ignores his brother’s imploring tone, his skittering fingertips busy trailing along the line where blackened skin meets its normal hue, dancing across Thor’s thick wrist and feeling for the flutter of his pulse that he might be reassured. “Your impetuosity knows no bounds,” he snaps at long last, because anger is the only emotion he trusts himself to feel in that moment, and fear so often manifests itself as such. “You are a fool, Thor. You could have been killed.”

“Loki,” Thor whispers his name again, and this time when his voice cracks, it’s not with disuse but with something else entirely.

“Hush, Brother,” Loki returns, his voice just as quiet and deceptively calm, because he understands all that his brother doesn’t say, all of the guilt he must surely feel, because Sif… She was important to him, in a way that words could never wholly express. “Hush,” Loki repeats, and his hands are careful where they cover Thor’s own. This time, there’s no pretence of inspecting the damage the Frost Giant caused. “We’ll be home soon.”

It’s simple.

It’s Loki’s own demonstration of silent support— unwavering loyalty. It’s as much for him as it is for Thor. To be needed… That’s all Loki has ever wanted. Trapped on Jotunheim, parted from friends and family both, Loki is all that remains within Thor’s reach. 

Loki is all that Thor has left to hold onto now. He’s the only familiar thing in a realm that is so distinctly unfamiliar.

Despite the runes that adorn the stone walls, Loki has never felt so powerful, so much in control while having none. He stares down at their hands and wonders when his own stopped pulling Thor back from moments of recklessness and instead started to push him towards such moments on a whim.

He wonders when he stopped working with Thor and started working against him.

He wonders when Thor will notice… If perhaps he already has.

Thor laughs a sad laugh, one without humour, and it pulls Loki from his own bitter musings to listen. He’s never known his brother sound so wrecked, so hapless, and Loki hates himself for the feeling it evokes in him, that manic glee at being the strong one, the puppeteer pulling on Thor’s strings. “It should be me,” Thor murmurs, and Loki doesn’t know if he’s referring to the soft words of comfort that Loki offered him or if he’s referring to Sif’s untimely death.

Either way, Loki leans closer and bumps their shoulders in an effort to lighten the sombre mood. It doesn’t work. “It’s not always about you, Thor,” he scoffs.

But that’s a lie too.

It’s always been about Thor, hasn’t it? For as long as Loki can remember, it’s always been him and him alone.

Time passes, and there are certain subjects they don’t broach during that time. Sif’s death is one of them. The All-Father’s nonattendance another. They pass the days complaining instead about the meagre rations of food (“Honestly, Thor, I bet they can hear your stomach back home on Asgard!” or “Volstagg would _weep_ if he knew a serving so scanty.") and poking fun at their Frost Giant guards (“That one? I’ve started calling him Bonehead.”)

Finally, hesitantly, Thor hedges, “When the All-Father comes…”

Loki indulges his brother, if only out of boredom. He has stared at the sigils long enough to have them imprinted on his brain and there is little else to occupy his mind. “When the All-Father comes,” he parrots back at him in sing-song, pressing for Thor to continue.

Still, Thor falters, either unsure how or whether he even wants to proceed. Nestling into his red cape for warmth, Thor’s shoulders slump. There’s frost in his beard, Loki notices, and his hands are useless to him, numb from the constant chill. Eir will be able to treat it once he’s returned home, but until then it’s something he must suffer. “We’ll be home soon.” The echoed words are no truer now than they were when Loki spoke them. The difference is that, for at least one brief moment, hearing the lie spill from his brother’s lips, Loki wants to believe in it. 

“You’ll be home soon,” is what he says, pulling the truth out from the untruth. The intentions of King Laufey are all too apparent, and Loki can’t help but wonder if perhaps he knew all along that this might happen, that – should their plain fail – they would be separated… And perhaps it’s easier that Loki should be trapped on Jotunheim, that he should be somewhere he can cause no harm. Jotunheim has seen far worse devastation than Loki could ever bring to it, after all.

The All-Father would never leave his heir to die on Jotunheim, but Loki…

Odin has been cornered by their actions, left with no alternative choice but to follow King Laufey’s instructions to see Thor’s safe return. The obvious condition is that the Casket be returned to them… But it will take time to restore Jotunheim, even with it; Thor and Loki’s excursion to their realm has afforded them the missing piece of the puzzle.

Thor frowns. “Loki?” he asks, because for all Loki calls him the fool, he is not one. When his brother doesn’t answer, Thor turns to face him, his movements awkward and clumsy but no less purposeful. Had he the use of his hands, he might have placed one of them at Loki’s neck in that all too familiar gesture, forced the other man to look at him and see his conviction. “You will come home.”

It’s not meant to be a question but Loki shakes his head in answer even so. “Do you truly think they’d let us _both_ leave?” He almost sounds sympathetic when faced with Thor’s optimism, sympathetic or condescending.

Thor’s jaw tightens. “They’ll have no choice. Loki, I will make—” he starts, but Loki’s laughter interrupts his vehement denial. His words stop there suddenly, but Loki knows the start of them and therefore knows the end. He has heard such claims often enough that he could quote his brother word for word.

“No, Thor,” he says simply once his laughter subsides. “You will not.”

“Why?” Thor asks, bowing his head that their faces are close, each warm puff of air fanning over Loki’s lips. It’s the only privacy they can have here, huddled together in the farthest corner of their shared cell and shielded by a curtain of Thor’s matted hair. “Why?” Thor asks again, stubborn, when Loki does not immediately respond, distracted by the sudden closeness of their lips, and oh, how easy it would be.

It wouldn’t be the first time. Loki has tasted his wine from Thor’s lips many times before.

It’s always the last time, though, isn’t it?

“Thor…” The name leaves Loki’s lips on a trembling exhale and it says nothing and everything all at once. 

“Loki,” Thor insists, resting their foreheads together in his need for contact. “I cannot… I will not leave you here. You’re my brother, and I swore once I would protect you from these horrid creatures. Let me protect you.”

Loki closes his eyes, unable to stand the passion he sees in Thor’s. “The Frost Giants will keep one of us prisoner here, Thor,” he states. “And Asgard needs its heir.” Asgard, with its brilliant sun and beautiful architecture… Loki can see it behind his closed lids, in all its illustrious glory and splendour… And it is _Thor_ he sees there, the sun making him shine all the brighter as he leads Asgard to victory after victory, the minstrels writing songs of his might and the people adulating him, their king… Loki does not see himself in that future; he never has.

“How can I protect my people if I cannot protect you?” Thor rants. “How am I to be king while my own brother is left to rot here in the wasteland that is Jotunheim? What king would I be then? What brother would I be? Loki, please.”

Loki opens his eyes, the vision still there, etched into his memory. “One without a choice,” is his answer, the only one he has and the only one he knows to give, though he knows it will not be enough to satisfy Thor.

“I do have a choice,” Thor protests, his voice low and his words heavy with meaning. 

It’s the only other obvious answer available to them, but it still takes Loki a moment to realise. Somehow, even after all Thor has done, Loki is left speechless when he sees the lengths Thor would go to for him. He considers saying yes, just for a moment. He considers letting Thor sacrifice himself, and everything he was brought up to be, just for him, just so that Loki would be safe.

Thor stares at him, searches his eyes with his own, wild and scared. It’s Loki who should be scared, faced with the very real prospect of being left alone on Jotunheim, a prisoner to keep the peace, however fragile, between their realms, and yet it is the separation that hurts most. He cannot envision a life without Thor… Not just his own life— anyone’s. 

Everything that Thor touches turns golden; every word that he utters is hope.

“Sentiment,” Loki whispers, a rueful smile tugging at the corners of his lips, and he doesn’t know if he’s talking to himself or to Thor. Even after all this time, his brother’s words are still gilded, still full of hope, and Loki could lose himself in the fanciful notions of cures and happy endings, could lose himself in Thor. 

Everything that Loki touches withers; every word that he utters is poison.

Somewhere, distantly, Loki hears approaching footsteps, the tell-tale patter against the stone floors, and he knows that it’s time— now or never. 

He spins lie after lie, half-truth after half-truth… It’s almost poetic that now… Now he should break his brother’s heart with the simple truth, and all of it in the name of love. Why shouldn’t he blame love while he still has it to blame?

“I killed her,” Loki blurts.

Thor recoils, shock and hurt and confusion all melding into one in his expression. “What?” 

“Listen to me,” Loki hisses when Thor turns to look in the direction of the footsteps. He needs Thor to hear this, to hear it and believe it and to hate him for it. “I killed her. I killed Sif. Are you being deliberately obtuse?”

“Brother, I don’t—”

“The artefact we came here for? It was a trinket, nothing more.”

Thor shakes his head, refusing to believe the madness that spews from Loki’s lips. “You’re lying,” he accuses, but he sounds uncertain, and Loki picks at that uncertainty like it’s a thread until slowly but surely their entire relationship unravels around them… And then all Thor asks is, “Why?” He sounds like a lost child, a puppet whose strings has been cut and is left floundering in its newfound freedom. “Why?” he repeats, angrier now, his voice rising as his temper flares.

“Because, dear Brother,” Loki sneers, and the venom drips from each word. He licks his lips as though to rid them of the taste. The wine from happier times is a distant memory to them now. “I wanted to prove to the All-Father how unfit you are to rule, how easily you can be influenced.”

“And now?” Thor asks, like he can’t quite help himself from doing so. He still hangs on Loki’s every word, no matter how much he doesn’t want to hear them. “Why else would you tell me this now but to trick me into leaving you here? Brother, please. No more lies… No more tricks.”

Loki meets Thor’s gaze. “There is no trick,” he tells him simply, the softness of his voice belying the harshness of his words. “I would sooner rot here than see Asgard fall to ruin under your reign. I have long-since been incapable of love, Thor… You’re just too much of a fool to recognise its absence.”

It’s the final blow and Loki watches the impact, how Thor’s face crumbles and then hardens in a matter of seconds. He looks at Loki like he’s a stranger, brow furrowed like he’s seeing him now for the first time… And then he stops looking, stops speaking… When the guard comes to remove Thor from the cell, he goes willingly and without looking back, and it’s strangely anticlimactic, Loki thinks.

When the All-Father comes, he doesn’t come at all.

One moment, Thor’s there and the next moment he isn’t, and the cell feels suddenly too cold and too empty without him, like it wasn’t at all cold or empty before. Alone, Loki releases the breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding and leans back against the wall, the cold seeping in through his clothes and chilling his skin. “I’m sorry,” he says to no one because there is no one there to hear. “I’m sorry.” 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [{Prologue}](https://archiveofourown.org/works/911819) by [MintySquirrel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MintySquirrel/pseuds/MintySquirrel)
  * [{Festivities}](https://archiveofourown.org/works/911841) by [MintySquirrel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MintySquirrel/pseuds/MintySquirrel)
  * [{Gardens of Asgard}](https://archiveofourown.org/works/911864) by [MintySquirrel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MintySquirrel/pseuds/MintySquirrel)
  * [Fangs and Frost Giants](https://archiveofourown.org/works/915239) by [MintySquirrel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MintySquirrel/pseuds/MintySquirrel)
  * [Cursed](https://archiveofourown.org/works/926110) by [MintySquirrel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MintySquirrel/pseuds/MintySquirrel)
  * [Weapons Worthy of Gods](https://archiveofourown.org/works/930670) by [MintySquirrel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MintySquirrel/pseuds/MintySquirrel)
  * [Goodbye](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1153456) by [MintySquirrel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MintySquirrel/pseuds/MintySquirrel)




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